


slamming doors

by theoreticlove



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Attempts At Getting Your Estranged Wife To Forgive You, F/M, gift-giving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2020-10-09 04:17:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20493842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theoreticlove/pseuds/theoreticlove
Summary: fëanáro shows up on nerdanel’s doorstep





	slamming doors

Nerdanel jumps when she hears a knock on the door. It is a habit, she supposes- when the flight had happened, more than one person had come to her door to scream at her, as if she had anything to do with her husband’s actions. By now, such things never happen anymore, but they have left their impact. 

Slowly she walks to the door, wishing she had time to wash her hands. She has been sculpting all day, and her clothes are dirty, her hair a mess. She supposes that whoever it is will simply have to deal with it. She wonders who it could be- her sons are busy with various endeavours to redeem themselves, Anairë is busy planning Ñolofinwë’s begetting day party, Earwen is in Alqualondë. Perhaps her parents? Or other friends, coming to pay an impromptu visit. 

She opens the door, and she could swear her heart stops. 

Standing before her is Curufinwë Fëanáro. 

He fidgets, clearly unsure of what to say. That is well. She will speak, then.

“Get thee gone, Curufinwë,” she says, and slams the door in his face.

Fifteen minutes later, she opens the door once more. He is gone.

The next day, there is another knock on her door. This time, she is less covered in dust, because the statue of her husband that she had been making the day before had been smashed to bits after what appeared to be his short-lived attempt at a reunion. 

She opens the door again, and is met once more with her husband’s face. 

“Wait,” he says, as she moves to slam the door once more. “Please.”

She stills. 

“I- uh,” he stumbles, and she notices for the first time the bouquet of flowers in his hand. “For you. I- I remember they were your favourites, before.”

He is right. She hasn’t bought any of those flowers in centuries, the scent of them always bringing her back to happier times, to when he would give her a bouquet of them for no particular reason, simply because he loved her. 

She takes them out of his hands, and he gives her a slight smile. 

She slams the door in his face. 

The third day, she is almost expecting him to knock. The day is stiflingly warm, so she ties her hair back and answers the door with a glass of ice water in her hand. 

When she opens the door, there he stands. His hair is also tied back, but he wears long sleeves and seems completely unbothered by the heat. He has always been like that, spirit of fire that he is. 

In his hand is what appears to be a toolbox. 

“Curvo says you’ve been using the same sculpting tools for centuries, so we, ah- we made some new ones for you this morning.”

She takes the box from his hand and examines the contents. The tools are fine, and if she’s being honest, her old tools are beginning to fall apart on her. 

“Together?” She asks. 

“Yes. Ah, Tyelpë helped too. He did some of the patterns.” 

So her son and grandson have forgiven him. 

“Good,” she says, and slams the door in his face. 

The fourth day, she opens the door and he is smiling. In his hands is a blown glass vase. Telerin, she can tell, blues and greens and the yellow of the setting sun. She loves it. 

“You were actually allowed to buy something Telerin?” She asks, looking at him skeptically, as she takes it from him. It is beautiful, glinting in the light. 

“It was a show of good faith. I’m trying to make amends,” he explains. He seems genuinely happy about it. Genuinely happy to be doing something good. 

He is trying to make amends. First her, then her sons, and now the Teleri? Perhaps he is truly becoming a better person. Perhaps he is no longer that man, the man who had led their people astray and had killed for his own vengeance. Perhaps. 

“That is well. Thank you for the vase,” she says, and slams the door in his face. 

The fifth day, she does not open the door to Fëanáro. Rather, she opens the door to an elf who claims he has a flower delivery for her. She didn’t order flowers, but she signs for them anyway. She notices immediately that they are flowers that will look perfect in the vase from yesterday. She smiles to herself as she puts them in it, adding some water. 

Fëanáro does not come until later that night. She has just finished dinner when he knocks.

She opens the door, and there he stands, right next to a sculpture of... herself? 

“Is that me?” She asks. He looks absolutely exhausted. 

“It’s _supposed_ to be. Lord, how do you do this? I’ve been working away at this and it’s still so...,” he gestures vaguely in the direction of the sculpture. “I sent the flowers to make up for this.”

The sculpture isn’t actually that big. It’ll fit in her collection of sculptures quite nicely, actually. And she should be able to carry it by herself.

Once he leaves, she’ll move it to the back door, attached to her studio for just that reason. But for now?

She slams the door in his face.

The sixth day, he does not show up with a gift. Instead, he shows up with a black eye and a rueful smile, and he speaks.

“The first time I met you, you told me I was a pompous jerk. I thought you were the most brilliant person I had ever met, and I didn’t want you to think that of me. For a month after that, I didn’t do anything I thought might come across as pompous. I want you to like me, so badly.

“When we first fought, you said I was insensitive to your wants and needs. I apologised and told you I love you, and I started paying more attention. I want to be there for you, always.

“When we got married, I said I would support you forever. And when- when you got sick, when Curvo was born, I- all I wanted was for- for you to be well again. I was so worried, I prayed to the Valar. I want you to live so much.

“When I left for Formenos and you wouldn’t come with me, I was so angry. You told me I had gone too far. You are still the most brilliant person I have ever met, but I didn’t listen then.

“But I am listening now. I am listening now, and I am listening forever. I have apologised to your father and your mother, to whom I owe this bruise on my eye, and I have begged their forgiveness for hurting you. And I have begged the forgiveness of your- of our sons.”

Fëanáro falls to his knees.

“Now I beg for your forgiveness, Nerdanel, though I know I do not deserve it. You don’t have to give it. But know I will do whatever I can, even if it means having a door slammed in my face every day until the End, to make it up to you.”

“Okay,” says Nerdanel, and slams the door in his face. 

The seventh day, he knocks on the door once more. Nerdanel opens it, and smiles. Fëanáro has no gifts, no poetic words, only that ugly bruise. He is only himself. 

She steps to the side.

“Won’t you come in?”

His answering smile is wonderful, and she realises with a pang that she has missed it so very, very much. 

It will be a long road, she thinks, before she can forgive him. But this will be a start. 

She is tired of slamming doors shut.

**Author's Note:**

> they’re doing their best.


End file.
